On An Execution In Peripheral Vision Poem by Bill Grace

He dies with out saying a word
His protest was through the barrel of a gun
His adulation from one equally lost - equally angry,
It is the end, there is nothing to say.
I wonder if prison could ever tame such barbarity.
If there could be a quiet miralcle there and
The rock could be rolled away from his tomb.
If words could be spoken; false words, manipulating words,
defensive words, words of a truth too terrible to live or
even much more than momentarily bare
AND OVER THE YEARS
Feelings would come forth
Feelings long lost of a lonely, scared, fierce child -
wounded beyond recognition.
AND PERHAPS SOME DAY IN AN ULTIMATE
ACT OF FREEDOM
Words again but not of the first spirit -
the words of manipulation -
'I'm so terribly sorry for the wrong I did.'
This will never be for the evil one is gone
Taken from life as surely as he took others.
Death has taken its own with him
And with life its option for contrition.